


Badass Bucky

by Nori



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Amnesiac Bucky Barnes, Body Horror, Cyborg Bucky, Gen, Hardcore Henry AU, Non-Graphic Violence, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, but it's pretty mild here, i guess, idk how else to describe this tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 05:46:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9805211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nori/pseuds/Nori
Summary: He strafes sideways as he shoots, uncaring if these men live or die, so long as they aren’t shooting at him anymore. Six, seven, eight men fall, some clutching wounds. One man gets a shot off on him, the bullet slamming into his shoulder. It knocks him back, but there’s no blood.More metal. How much of him is metal?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was just minding my own business when my brain started screaming about putting Bucky in the Hardcore Henry universe. I never wanted this but here we are. Also I may or may not have an outline for a multichaptered fic that would be something like this little snippet. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
> 
> This is really more of an experiment than a finished piece, but I liked how it turned out. Hopefully you'll like it too.

Bullets blast through the concrete around his feet, so he jumps. He falls seemingly forever, arms wheeling through the air to maintain his vertical. The ground rushes up to him hard, and he rolls - once, twice - before scrambling to his feet and bolting. He throws himself over a hand railing and stumbles down a dark staircase into a covered parking lot.

He knows immediately it’s a bad choice, angry voices still ringing out behind him and hardly anywhere to hide in the empty lot. Panting, he rushes toward a lonely car, ducking behind it and listening intently. The men chasing him are loud - raised voices, stomping feet, clanking gear. He knows when they’ve entered the parking garage. He holds his breath, leaning around the trunk and making visual contact of his pursuers.

They’re obvious professionals, fanning out and maintaining contact. He won’t be able to hide for long. He looks down at his left hand, at the shiny metal knuckles bursting through the fake skin laid over his arm. He probably only has one shot at this.

He presses his metal fist against the side panel of the car, denting it just enough to make a bit of noise. Dropping down to his belly, he sees one pair of feet twist toward the car and begin stalking over. He lifts into a crouch, as flush with the car as he can be and waits. One… Two… Three…

The mercenary whips around the car, mouth of the gun aimed low. He barely gets his metal fist up before the shot is fired, but it’s enough. The bullet ricochets and shatters a patch of concrete wall. Gripping the barrel, he pulls the mercenary down, pounding his right fist into the man’s face. Two hits drops the merc, so he grabs the rifle and a holstered pistol. They know where he is now.

He lunges away from the car, rolling up to his feet with the automatic rifle in his hands. He’s going for speed, not accuracy. Body shots, blown out knees, a bullet through the shoulder. He strafes sideways as he shoots, uncaring if these men live or die, so long as they aren’t shooting at him anymore. Six, seven, eight men fall, some clutching wounds. One man gets a shot off on him, the bullet slamming into his shoulder. It knocks him back, but there’s no blood.

More metal. How much of him is metal?

He returns the favor, a shoulder shot for a shoulder shot, then puts three rounds through the last man’s stomach. He throws the rifle down, pulls the pistol free of his waistband and runs. He races up the spiraling ramp toward the ground level, and leaps over the concrete barrier into fresh air. A narrow back alley catches his eye, so he ducks into it, hoping for a moment to catch his breath.

Down the alley, he crouches behind a rusted dumpster and presses his hands against his face. His right hand shakes, the cool metal of the pistol in his grip brushing his forehead. Tires squeal, followed by van doors sliding open. More shouting, stomping boots, clanking gear. He clambers to his feet, running for the end of the alleyway, but another black van comes skidding to a stop before him, blocking the exit.

He runs harder, firing into the shadows of the van as soon as the door opens. Twelve rounds before his pistol clicks, empty. Some of his shots were wasted, men still clambering out of the vehicle in front of him with guns ready. There are still men behind him. He can’t slow down.

He flings the empty gun into the closest man’s face, knocking him flat. He throws himself at the next man. He hears shots ringing out behind him, men screaming. His panic reaches a fever pitch. The man’s skull collapses under the force of his left fist, and he dashes into the open van. Two more men await him. He batters the closest one into the wall, stripping a knife from his belt and wheeling to jam it into the other man’s throat.

Hands shaking, slick with fresh blood, he takes both men’s pistols and creeps toward the open van door. He peeks around the corner quickly, but the mercs he’s prepared for are strewn across the ground, bloody and broken. There’s a man standing over them - white shirt, black slacks - with a shotgun raised against his shoulder.

“Hey,” the man calls, turning toward the van. He sees the blood splattered across the white shirt before he ducks back into hiding. “You still alive in there?”

He waits, right hand shaking, both pistols ready. This man is quiet; low voice, soft steps, whispering cloth. There’s a sudden tapping against the van behind his head. He whips around, firing both pistols fearfully. Bullet holes burst through the van wall, shedding light into the darkened interior. He makes himself stop before he wastes all his ammo.

“I guess that’s a yes,” the man says from outside the van. An obvious American accent, different from all the other men who’ve been after him today. “I’ve been looking for you. I’m going to get you out of here.”

He inches toward the door, spinning out with both pistols raised. The man holds the shotgun pointing down, one hand wrapped around the stock. He lifts the other into the air.

“I’m a friend,” the man says, face serious. “I’m trying to stop the people who did this to you.”

A friend? He has only the doctor. Everyone else he can remember has tried to kill him. He lowers the pistols slowly.

“Good,” the man smiles. “Can you speak?”

He shakes his head.

“They didn’t even install your voice module?”

He shakes his head again. He’s not actually sure, though.

“All right, then,” the man says. “Follow me.”

He follows the man through a heavy door in the alley, through an abandoned restaurant kitchen, down a hallway, and into the street on the other side of the building. The man climbs into an SUV parked along the curb, so he gets in as well.

“Reach into the glove compartment and pull out the thing in there, will you?” The man asks, focused on a phone. He does as asked, pulling out a metal brick and a knot of wires. “Untangle that mess,” the man says, reaching over to take the brick. He holds them up uncertainly once they’re straightened out. The man grabs one end of each wire and plugs them into the brick.

“Take your shirt off,” the man says. He stares, resistant. The man looks up. “I know it sounds weird,” he says, “but this will tell us more about you.”

Reluctantly, he pulls his shirt off. His chest is a horror scene. There are ports in each pectoral and a seam along his sternum. He turns to his new friend.

“Plug those wires into the ports,” the man mumbles absently, pressing buttons on the brick. He does it, although it makes him feel sick. “Ah ha,” the man says triumphantly. “Bucky.”

He cranes his neck to see the brick, and the man turns it toward him. Green LEDs spell out “BUCKY” over an image of a body. He points to himself, confused.

“You’re Bucky,” the man confirms, holding out a hand. “I’m Steve.”

Bucky cautiously takes Steve’s hand, and they shake firmly. Steve smiles.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

**Author's Note:**

> i s2g i'm still working on matchmaking...


End file.
